Thoughts on Dead Shows and Parking Lots

At some point recently, the kids and I were telling each other stories. I can’t remember who went first, but Wyatt and Pepper each told their stories amid interruptions and corrections and suggestions. Let’s say for the sake of argument that Briar wasn’t talking yet, so it became my turn. Rather than the usual stories of kingdoms and unicorns and the garden variety stuff I usually went for, I decided to pull from my memory of past events. The kids listened in amazement, not really understanding  what I was talking about. The story was a hit. And I think I’ll share it with you now.

It was the summer of 1993. I had finished my first year of college at The College of Charleston. At the end of summer, I would be transferring to NC State. I enjoyed College of Charleston very much. I loved the 9-to-1 girl-to-guy ratio. It had been a great year. But I had spent most weekends driving up and back from Raleigh to see my girlfriend Marcia. At some point during the year, I had decided it would just be easier to transfer to State and then I’d be able to see Marcia every day. And so as summer began, I was just planning on hanging out before moving to Raleigh.

I began the summer by catching the first two shows of the Grateful Dead’s tour. My roommate at the College of Charleston was from somewhere right outside of NYC and he and I had gotten together to see the Dead play two nights at Giants Stadium. The first night had been a cold, rainy night. From what I remember, the band played well, but everyone’s spirit was down because they were saturated and the parking lot had been lame. That had been on June 5th. The next day, June 6th, was a day for the record books. The weather was perfect. Everyone was having a great time. And it was my birthday. I can’t remember if we were on anything, but we were in great moods and were super excited for a great show. The boys came on stage and opened the show with “Here Comes Sunshine.” For those of us in the cold rain the night before, it was the kind of nod from the band that we loved. That right there was why we followed these guys all over the country.

After these shows were over, I returned to Fayetteville to face the rest of my summer. I have no idea what I did. I’m sure it was fun. And time passed. At some point that summer, I got a random call from a guy I’d graduated with at Episcopal named Todd. He and I had never hung out, never been friends, but we knew each other and were friendly. Todd informed me that he had extra tickets to the last two shows of the Dead’s tour which were up in DC at RFK Stadium. He told me that if I jumped in the car and drove to his family’s country house somewhere relatively close to Fayetteville, then he and I could head up to DC and catch the shows together. I agreed and plans were made.

Way back then in the early 90s, there were no cell phones, no GPS. There were maps. There were giant travel atlases of all 50 states that you could keep shoved under your car seat. Navigating was much more rustic, much more haphazard. On the phone, Todd had given me directions. And with all directions one receives, you trust that the person giving the directions isn’t a complete moron and in fact knows what they’re talking about. This wasn’t the case for Todd. Turns out he was a complete moron and had absolutely no idea where he was or how to give someone else directions to his location. And of course these cryptic directions ended with a barely-visible dirt driveway that went on for miles before ending at a lake and a cabin. Back then getting lost didn’t mean having your car or phone start screaming at you in a British accent and repeatedly tell you to make a u-turn. Back then, getting lost meant you had zero idea where you were, whether you were close to your destination, whether you were still in the same state, the same country. Back then, getting lost was an absolute nightmare that could absolutely destroy your trip and your timeline. Somehow, someway I ended up finding the cabin.

After a little while of awkwardly hanging out with Todd telling stories of our first years at college, I went to his guest room and crashed. I don’t remember what time it had been, but I don’t think it was super late. The next morning when I woke up, there were probably 20 extra people at the cabin. Apparently Todd had invited everyone he knew to go to the show with him. And apparently he had promised everyone the same tickets he had promised me. And you know, as I think about this story, for some reason I think that idiot never even had tickets. That sounds sort of familiar. But regardless of whether he had tickets or not, I wasn’t going to be getting a ticket. I was heading to DC with nowhere to stay and no tickets to a show that I probably wasn’t going to get in to.

At this point in the story, we’re going to say goodbye to Todd. He was never seen again. And matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him since. Whatever. This is also one of the many parts of the story where my memory gets really hazy and details both large and small simply aren’t there anymore. Somehow I ended up in DC with my high school roommate and one of his buddies from his hometown. I had managed to hook up with him and scored a place to crash at his mother’s house in DC. Remember, this is WAY before cell phones, so I have no idea how all that happened. I also don’t remember if this was day-of or the day before the last two shows. Again, whatever.

Doug, his buddy, and I make our way to RFK the day of the show. We get there early because we all needed to score tickets, and we wanted to spend the afternoon hanging out in the parking lot getting into a variety of troubles. For those of you unfamiliar with RFK stadium in DC, it was right slam in the middle of one of the worst parts of the city. It was exactly like the scene in “Vacation” where Clark says, “Roll ‘em up” and they quickly roll up the windows and floor the gas pedal. No, this open-air stadium had been placed in one of the worst parts of town. I guess the city had gotten the land on the cheap and figured the money they saved would offset the impending lawsuits for public endangerment. But it was mid-summer and we were all safe in numbers. The hippies had taken over this little part of DC for two days and we were here to have a good time.

At some point during that first afternoon, one of us had found a guy selling tickets. As it turned out, this guy had tickets for both nights. The first night’s tickets were the standard Ticket Master-type tickets. Easy enough. But the second night’s tickets had been mail order. For those of you not familiar with the Dead’s mail order tickets, they tended to been smaller, thicker, and they were usually decorated with typical Dead-style art. They looked nothing like a normal ticket. And they were also so unique that it was hard to spot a fake. I’m sure we were all high on something when the deal was made. Who could blame us for not paying attention. We’d just scored both nights. We could now relax, find drugs and enjoy the show.

And what a show it was! If memory serves, Sting was opening that tour for the Dead. Whoever it was, we went early to see them and to figure out how we were going to sneak down onto the field. I don’t remember how we did it, but we saw the entire show from the field, pretty close to the stage. And to this day, I would swear in a court of law that I spent the entire show passing a joint back and forth with Tommy Chong. Cheech wasn’t with him that night. But this guy looked exactly like him. And he sounded EXACTLY like him. And he smoked exactly like him. Don’t ask me what the boys played. Don’t ask me how we got home. Those details are gone.

I don’t remember much about the parking lot the second day. I do know that we didn’t have to worry about tickets, so we had our sights set on having a great time. I also don’t remember who scored the acid or if Doug and his buddy ate as much as I did, but suffice it to say, the rest of the story is shrouded in the daze of a serious LSD trip. I’m pretty sure we all went toward the gates together. I believe the plan was the same as the night before. Get in and get down on the field. As I handed my ticket to guy at the gate, he began to rub it and examine it and look confused and then angry. I remember him motioning for the cops to come over and I was pulled out of the line and asked where I had gotten the tickets. Rather than engage in conversation with a man who’s face was swirling and contorting and doing weird shit from my trip, I just pointed to the parking lot. They then told me that my ticket was fake and to get the hell out of there. Doug and his buddy had gotten in. I don’t remember if they were booted and then snuck in. But they had gotten in.

So there I was, tripping my face off, alone, outside the show, with zero plan. I remember wandering around, trying to find a good place to hang out and listen to the show. As I mentioned earlier, RFK is an open air stadium, so you can hear the music perfectly well from outside the gates. The trick was not getting mugged or beaten up since we were still in the heart of the bad part of town. And for those of you not familiar with a serious LSD trip, having curve balls thrown at you can sometimes send things sideways. People tend to prefer familiar faces and safe spaces when expanding their minds in this manner. And me being an experienced consumer of acid, I was looking for that safe spot where I could relax and enjoy.

Now I’m going to need you to visualize the stadium. Imagine a giant, old stadium with parking lots all around it. These parking lots were not one big circle around the stadium. They were smaller and chunked up here and there. I remember there were lots of trees around the parking lots. And I remember there were lots of steps from some of the lots to other ones. On one side of the stadium, there was a giant circle drive where you could pull up, get out of your car or bus or whatever and walk up to the main gates. And at the gates were a bunch of turnstiles like in a subway, as well as those giant metal security things that you’d pull down to secure the open gates, like in the mall when they closed up the individual shops. There was also a giant half circle-ish area of grass in front of the gates. As the show was starting I found myself sitting on this area of grass. The sound was good and it was comfortable. There were a lot of people in this area, all going through the same thing I was. I felt safe in this crowd. And to the front, left-ish of us was another parking lot at the bottom of several flights of stairs. As the music came on, we heard this roar start up. It got louder and louder and soon we realized everyone from that lower lot had started running up the stairs and were planning on storming the gates. Everyone around me on the grass took the cue and popped to their feet and started rushing the gates. For those of you who’ve never been to a Dead show, this happened several times a night, every night they played. Way too many people would show up for a show and all these people, high on drugs and tired of being outside the action, would continually storm the gates. The idea being that most would get in, so play the odds.

Om this particular night, I was way too fucked up to run. Or walk. Or go to jail. I sat put and watched the circus. And as hippies jumped turnstiles, pushing ushers and security out of the way and scattered in order not to get caught, more security and cops quickly descended on the area and started pulled down the overhead gates to stop people from getting in. Once the gates were down and the area was contained, everyone sort of lingered in the area trying to figure out where their next siege would take place. And as we sat there, we began to hear sirens. And not just a few. It sounded like the president was driving through. From what I remember, there were dozens of cop cars that quickly sped down both sides of the “driveway” in front of the stadium. When they got out, we realized they were in full riot gear. Keep in mind that cops hate Dead Heads and were all too excited to unleash the pepper spray and boutons on all us hippies. Of course, that got all of us screaming and throwing things. Someone right behind me threw a beer bottle that shattered on a cops shield. They then started pointing and turning their attention in my area. And I should mention I was wearing typical Dead show garb, as well as an enormous, tie-dyed Mad Hatter hat which was super easy to spot in a crowd. Needless to say, I was out of that area before the cops even had a chance to get to us.

The rest of the show was spent pretty much by myself listening to the show. Don’t ask me what they played. Don’t ask me how we got home. Hell, don’t ask me where (of if) I slept. Just one of the many, many, many crazy experiences I had at shows back in the day. Sometime soon I’ll have to tell you about how me and my buddies followed Phish during the majority of our college years, financing the entire tour by selling a variety of things that were pretty much frowned upon by the police. And again, don’t ask me what they played. Or how I got home.

When I was done telling my kids this story, they thought I was some kind of super hero. I left out the part about the LSD, but I told them everything else. They were amazed that I survived the cops, and the hood. They thought it was super cool that I hung out with some guy named Chong. And they thought it was strange that I didn’t know what the band played or how I got home...